


Little Flower

by MintyInk_The_Amateur



Category: Samurai Jack (Cartoon)
Genre: Adoption, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21729919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintyInk_The_Amateur/pseuds/MintyInk_The_Amateur
Summary: An emperor may not have an empress, but he needs an heir.
Relationships: Ashi/Samurai Jack
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. A Hole in the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after the series finale. 3rd person POV.

The wall was covered in scars.

The servants had long ago learned not to try and cover them up, or scrub them away. It was useless, whatever was tried. The scars just appeared back again within a day, white and thin like a cat’s scratch, in greater multitudes every time someone looked at it. Then again, nobody had looked at it for at least a month. The scars- as unassuming as they were- gave everyone who saw them a sickening feeling. Perhaps it was the stark color contrast, the razor-thin slices white as snow against the ebony wall they adorned. That was the excuse some of the servants had given when they were asked why the room was avoided. Others emphasized the sheer number of them. They tried to count them, just as they had tried to scrub them away. 

One servant, a sweet boy with a knack for numbers, once tried to take on the challenge. Others prepared to cover his shifts, and he, in turn, prepared to take on the challenge only known through whispers in the imperial palace. Eventually, he had fallen asleep, only to awaken to a greater multitude on the wall. It was then that he had taken a job in the gardens, so as to never see that horrible wall again. When asked, he claimed that he counted more than a million of them. Then, without being asked, he whispered about the voices that came from the scars on the wall. They were crying to me, he said. Screaming. 

“Numbers”, he said, “mean nothing to me now.”

Others tried after him and lost more than a passion. One girl tried, and every day thereafter refused to step inside the palace gate. The emperor himself tried to reason with her, before offering her a job maintaining the walls around the palace. The labor was backbreaking and constant, but it became a safe haven for those who tried to count the slashes. The crew’s count grew larger, and the emperor grew sadder. Soon, the order was given to lock the room forever.

Whatever their effect, the palace breathed a sigh of relief when the room was locked forever. The emperor himself kept the key, and the servants once again could bustle about the far east corridor without falling victim to curiosity. The number of slashes, it was agreed, was exactly one million. It was best to decide on a number, and let the poor boy have his achievement. The days went by, and the servants grew more content. Happier, even. The weight of those terrible marks had been lifted from their shoulders. Even the maintenance crew smiled easier, knowing that the white-and-ebony screaming was safely muffled.

“Why, then,” one brave soul chose to whisper to a friend, “does Sire carry such a weight upon him?”

“It grows heavier each day,” her friend murmured back, “in a kingdom without war or famine.”

The newer servants had only heard stories of the weight upon their emperor’s heart. Rumors spun out from them like spiderwebs, entrapping their every observation in sticky speculation that only young people could see. He carries a sword with him, they saw it always on his hip. He does not know how to be without it. Wild stories of his battle- no, _battles,_ with the demon king soaked every imagination. The horrors he faced were legendary, and similarly scarring.

Older servants knew better. Many of them were there that fateful day when time took its revenge on the young emperor. One maid told the story to anyone who asked, but only if they asked.

“It is too painful,” she said, wringing her calloused hands, “to tell unprompted.”

The young emperor’s bride-to-be, his love, his soulmate. The words varied as much as her fate did. Some said she died of an awful disease, simply fainting dead away and never waking again. Others- usually the younger storytellers- were convinced she went up in a fireball, a heavenly flame striking her down as a coal-fire devours a piece of straw. The maid tells a different tale. She simply faded away, she said. Fell asleep and dissipated in the emperor’s arms.

It wasn’t a week after that before the vicious marks appeared in that little room, just two doors down from the imperial apartment.

It’s a wonder how they didn’t figure it out. The emperor himself prepared himself for the day when the question finally came. For all his thinking- five years of thinking- he only had one thing to say to the soul who asked him about the marks.

“Each mark,” he said to himself night after night, driving his sword into the wall again and again, “means another time I miss her.”

He didn’t exactly know what it meant- was each mark a week he missed her? A day? An hour? No, it was more like every _time_ he missed her. Every time he looked to his right and saw an empty space, every pang of regret, every time he passed what would have been theirs; _their_ room, _their_ bed, _their_ garden. Every time he missed her could only turn into a slash on the wall, or else a slash on his own body.

The emperor was unwell, as it became apparent all too soon after the room was locked. He lived and breathed and performed his duties, and nothing else. The servants tried valiantly, though. Jesters and minstrels, comedians and children, anyone who could try tried to lift his spirit.

Finally, after four years of watching their son lose himself, the old emperor and empress decided on an excursion. ‘A vacation’, they called it. A reward. Their son agreed quietly, like he did all things, and turned away. He would go, they knew deep down in their hearts, to count how much he missed her.

He left the next day, and the servants whispered about how. An emperor with no entourage, no treasure, no gilded robes. He carried only a single saddlebag upon his white horse and a white robe upon his back. He knew, as his parents knew, that in three days’ time he would be back still with a sadness in his heart and a blade begging to be used. 

Still, it would be nice to hope.

As the palace got smaller and smaller behind him, the young emperor looked to his right. Empty, as always.

“One.”


	2. One Tiny Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short trip takes a surprising, if not unwelcome, turn.

The emperor had gone on vacation.

His parents told the servants, and the servants told everyone who would listen. Friends, neighbors, families. Even strangers on the street; soon everyone knew that the emperor was on vacation- for three days, exactly. Rumors spread as fast as the news- where he was going and  _ why  _ were thrown into speculation with every mind the story passed through. Within a day, factions of believers formed themselves. The kitchen workers believed that he truly was simply taking a break from the stress of running the country- he would be back, they said, with a smile on his face and a fire in his eyes. Poor fools, they never saw just how tired their leader was.

The garden workers saw more of him, and believed they held the key to the rumors. He took walks in the gardens and marveled at them from his window. They had noticed his route, and oftentimes would transplant the flora so only the most beautiful flowers would be on display on either side of the emperor’s feet. The boy who once loved numbers would speak almost openly of his personal assumptions- when the emperor’s parents were safely inside, of course. He said, between tending peach trees, that the emperor was searching for a specific kind of flower. 

“Sire spends a lot of time under the willow on the hill,” the boy said, brushing his hand over a large, delicate peach blossom, “why shouldn’t he want the hill to be beautiful?” Others chose to listen to him. A large bag of iris seed was collected so that when the order was given planting could begin immediately. The rumor spread, and others listened. It became a project to those outside the palace, to beautify every detail of the already intricate estate. The gardens organized shifts amongst themselves, in order to continuously tend the flora and shape them into only the most exquisite designs. The wall workers used their own children to raze the weeds around the palace, to present an immaculate sight to the emperor when he came home. The emperor’s parents noticed everything and assigned extra wages accordingly.

The servants inside the palace went along with the project, though they doubted its effects. Vases were straightened, intricate tapestries were hung, and the floors were polished to a mirror shine. Still, whispers muddied the presentation.

“He is tired.” the old maid whispered, handing a vase to a younger companion. “He is tired and sad and I fear he may never recover. He lost so much that day,” and the young maid took the vase wordlessly and turned away. She didn’t have to hear the end of the sentence, and she didn’t want to. Everyone chose to believe that the project would somehow bring back the smiling boy his parents remembered from so long ago, before the demon attacked.

It was worth noting that the emperor did not take his sword; the blade was instead placed in its altar, in the throne room. Some took this as a sign of the emperor’s recovery, leaving his most trusted weapon behind. Others saw the true meaning.

“He left it in paranoia, not ease,” the old maid said, mostly to herself. The others didn’t listen, and his parents already knew. “In case we are attacked, he left the most capable weapon in the world with us.” Still, the palace refused to believe the words of the old maid. They only had to wait for three days, after all.

* * *

The young emperor was having the absolute  _ worst _ day. He was thankful for his simple clothes- no one would recognize this tired, sad, mud-covered straggler as their coveted leader. Not one soul outside the palace staff knew he was traveling so casually. Those out in the country would expect him to travel in elegance, gold and silk and six white horses pulling the imperial carriage. Not even six hours outside the palace gate, his horse had stepped in a rabbit-hole and thrown him. He’d managed to tend its wound and lead it to a nearby farm, but the loss of his animal meant the emperor was without a way to continue on, or a way to turn back, except on foot. He tied his single saddlebag loosely to his carryon, so he could sling his luggage over his shoulders and continue on unhindered. He sighed and tilted his straw hat to block the sun. 

“Two hundred and sixteen,” he said, defeat heavy in his voice despite his beautiful surroundings. The trees bloomed around him, delicate petals dancing in the wind. The air smelled clean, the light scent of blossoms as pleasant to the sense of smell as they were to sight. The young man in the white robe allowed himself, just for a moment, to enjoy nature’s gifts. The sun. The scent. The screaming.

“Screaming?” he said aloud, to no-one but himself. Indeed, a shrill whine had pierced the spring air and had invaded the emperor’s thoughts without him even noticing. Still, it was quiet- almost subtle in its volume. Perhaps the screamer was a ways off. Perhaps, for the first time in years, someone needed him to do something besides govern. Silently, as he did all things, he set off from the path to follow the noise. The trees blurred as he went along, minutes blurring into hours as he picked his way over ravines and through thornbushes. The heavens opened and sent a torrent of rain down, and still the emperor tracked the screaming. He was frightened of the familiarity- years had passed since his last battle, how was he not rusty? 

_ Perhaps I simply do not know how not to be a warrior,  _ he thought. Disdain soaked his thoughts, past regrets and losses pelting him like so many drops of rain. Still, he followed the noise until he reached it.

The building- some sort of fort, stationed high in the branches of a strong tree- was poorly constructed. The emperor could see, even from his place on the ground, the holes in the roof and the floor and everything in between- ramshackle, at best. The screaming had gotten louder, and as he stood at the base of the tree that horrible wailing threatened to drown out even the rain that soaked him to his bones. He took his straw hat off- it would only impede his movement.

Climbing the tree, despite its height, was no issue for him. Nor was getting inside- the door wasn’t locked, and so poorly built that it would have been no problem otherwise. At the back of his mind, the emperor noticed that below all the noise- the rain and the creak of the door and the wailing, all steadily climbing in volume- there was another noise. It was an eerie groan, a clicking death rattle. He had heard plenty of the sort before, and it posed him no problem as he pushed inside.

The problem came once he was inside the tiny building, the holes in the walls forgotten in an instant as the wailing grew louder. Two masses- two  _ bodies-  _ swayed in the wake of the rain. The molding ropes, looped between the rafters and the necks of each of the bodies, groaned with every movement. He only stole a glance at the body on the right- only a glance, he couldn’t stand it any longer. Dark hair hung over soft features, glassy eyes and blueing lips that almost moved with the wind. They followed him, those eyes, as he forced his way to the source of the wail.

A tiny blanket, an age-softened red. The color of old blood, a mere scrap of fabric bundled in a basket in what had to be the only dry patch in the room. The young man reached a tentative hand out toward the basket, and gently pulled one edge of the fabric down. Immediately, the wail began again, a tiny fist waving in the cold air to conduct the symphony of sorrows around it. The emperor found himself paralyzed, turned to stone under the rain and the gaze of what had to be a cherub sent from the heavens. The tiny creature shivered under her meager covering, and in an instant, her young overseer had retrieved a spare robe from his carryon- thankfully still dry despite the pouring rain. He reached for the child and found himself once again frozen in time.

She- the tiny one, with red wrapping her body and a cherry blossom tucked ever so carefully next to her head- looked so familiar. Large, sharp, dark eyes gleamed up at him, welling with tears. How cold it was there, in the fortress of sorrow! How he sympathized with the girl, how he knew! He bundled the little one up, wiping her tears away and tucking her little limbs down as carefully as possible. He turned, pulling up an edge of the fabric to shield the little one’s eyes. She didn’t need to see them, and he didn’t want her to.

Scrambling back down the tree took longer than going up- his cargo was too precious to risk speed. He kept his back to the rain, the little one safely tucked against his chest. The straw hat was put back in use- it acted as a makeshift shelter for the emperor’s precious cargo. He walked in the pouring, icy rain with determination in his heart. A quick trip to the farm from before proved a big mistake. The girl- that swinging, blue-lipped corpse- proved to be the daughter of the farm’s owner. The other, her lover.

“Dead.” the farmer- a man graying in all his features- didn’t ask. He knew. Perhaps the couple had shown signs before. Perhaps they had been missing, and he had been waiting for news. Perhaps the emperor didn’t care why. One calloused hand reached out for the bundle of cloth, and it was snatched from his reach. In an instant, both the baby and the mysterious young man fled the house and into the rain. The young emperor clutched the bundle close to him and ran until the farm disappeared behind him. Then he slowed but continued on.

“Perhaps you are safer with me, small one.” he murmured to her, and she squeaked in response. He continued on, patting her gently with his free hand. He only had another two days to get back, of course. His parents would be missing him. The little girl blinked up at him, and not too long after that fell asleep in his arms, no longer shivering.

He smiled, and for the first time in a long time forgot what number his internal tally was at.

Oh, well.


	3. A Safe Place To Grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The emperor returns, and he carries a surprise with him.

When the emperor returned, there was celebration.

He arrived at the palace gate, and at first, the guards didn’t recognize him. He was dirty, and tired, and soaked to the bone despite the clear sky. What’s more, he was  _ smiling.  _ The guards had only seen fleeting glimpses of their emperor from his carriage- his stoic face was the only one they remembered. The man in front of them- the common, content youth with a bundle of rags in place of a weapon- how could he be the same? Tired though he was, the young man did not raise a hand to the guards; he simply adjusted his cargo and asked again. Again, he was turned away. 

The maintenance crew, however, knew him differently. It was a child to first recognize him, a small boy with grass stains on his clothes and a single tooth missing from his smile. He turned his head when the emperor spoke, and left his post not a moment later. In the blink of an eye, the young emperor was swarmed with the children of those he had saved, offering him whatever they were taught to offer. He laughed-  _ laughed,  _ the emperor  _ laughed! _ \- and simply asked to be let into his home. The guards were embarrassed but were quickly forgiven. Within moments, the grand gate was swept aside, and once more the emperor walked into the imperial estate.

Of course,  _ walking  _ wasn’t quite accurate. The emperor, still in dirt and rags, more stumbled across his estate, pulled along by a gaggle of weed-pullers and sweepers, all barely tall enough to reach his belt. As they journeyed through the gardens, the emperor’s entourage grew and grew until every child on the estate was dancing and shouting and grabbing the hem of his stained robe. He smiled with them, always keeping his bundle of red and white close to his heart. They begged him for stories with each tug of his robe, knowing full well he was saving his. Children are funny that way. 

When children talk, adults listen, and adults listen well when children shout. By the time the emperor and his small army had reached the palace itself, the news had spread throughout the estate and not just the children but every maid, cook, guard, and gardener shouted for joy at the emperor’s return. The emperor’s father looked at his wife, and they shared a smile upon their thrones.

“Should we wait for him, love?” she said to him, her eyes glittering.

“I think so, my dear,” he said with a chuckle. “After all, he promised us three days alone, and it’s only been two.”

They laughed together and called for a servant to bring a fresh robe of the finest linen so their son may not want for clothes in his own house. Then, after the robe was brought, they called for something nice to drink. They poured each other’s glasses- being royalty does not exclude one from practicing proper manners- and waited for their son to reach the throne room. 

They heard his happy group even before the throne room doors opened- happy, childlike squeals echoing in time with the murmur of footsteps and cheerful conversation. The ancient doors groaned as his group pushed inside, and the dowagers peered amongst them as each person filed in. For a heartbeat, they panicked together- what if their son wasn’t home after all?- but then they saw him, and they rejoiced.

His hair was in a messy tail, far from the neat bun he often defaulted to; his skin was almost undeterminable from his robe in places, both were so caked in dirt; he wore only a single sandal- the other lost in some muddy ditch, surely; and the dowager empress was sure he had left home with a sunhat. The only somewhat clean thing about him was the bundle of cloth in his arms. His appearance, however, was not the reason they rejoiced. For the first time in years, their son looked truly content. 

His steps were lighter, and he didn’t drag his feet; his smile was more natural, and it graced his face more easily; his eyes still carried dark circles under them, but they didn’t seem to weigh him down as much. He laughed, shifting his bundle to better hold it, and finally shifted his gaze to his parents. He called a greeting to them, and his entourage parted before him. One does not get between parents and their child- even royal ones. They asked him his tale, and he gladly told it. The servants waited, clutching the walls of the room, and they listened.

They listened for an explanation- where was his majesties’ horse? Where was his shoe? Why is he caked in mud? And why- above all things,  _ why _ \- does he have a bundle of rags with him? He explained it all, waving a free hand for dramatic emphasis. He answered every question, satisfied every imagination, before finally reaching for his bundle. Everyone in the room held their breath.

Of course, the servants and the royals had their theories. Some thought he had found a treasure in the fields, gold, and gems to rival the royal regalia. Others had convinced themselves that he had found a rare flower he wanted to plant in the royal gardens. The children mostly hoped he had brought them candies to share.

Not a soul in the room knew what to do when a tiny girl emerged from the blankets.

She was sleeping, though how the babe had ignored the ruckus the servants had caused was beyond the emperor’s train of thought. Perhaps they simply did not hear her cry, and she had fallen asleep again before the crowd quieted. Nonetheless, she was beautiful. Pale, smooth skin and shiny hair as dark as ebony. The emperor held her close and whispered to her, poking her perfect nose ever so gently. She gave a tiny yawn and opened her eyes.

Later, the dowager empress would rave about the child’s eyes. Smooth and large and perfectly symmetrical, with long lashes and a color so dark one would fear to fall into them should one look too long. Perfect, in every sense of the word.

The emperor continued to explain, his voice dropping in volume as he went. With a wave of his hand, the children were cleared from the room- they did not need to hear what he saw. 

Even before he asked, the dowager empress looked at her husband. She nodded, and he nodded back. Yes, they thought, this is the right thing.

When they responded to his plea, when they said yes, the relief that crossed the young emperor’s face was unmistakable. 

The girl was kept, and named for the gifts of springtime.

The room next to the royal estate was locked forever, and the key hidden by an old and trustworthy maid.

The emperor smiled.

After all, an emperor needs an heir.


	4. Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this took so long, but I have zero self-discipline (not sure how else to say it)
> 
> Uhhhhh... enjoy!

When the maid opened the door to the littlest room in the royal apartment, she carried no duster, no broom, and no clean sheets- she knew there would be no use for any of it. The little room, as usual, was immaculate. The new dawn streamed through the windows, unhindered by streaks or dust. Toys and baubles in every color stared at her from their places on the wall; organized in perfectly even rows by size, type, and color. Untouched- the little one’s favorite playthings were all down the hall. She paid the toys no mind, forging on ahead to the windowed doors, and farther on to the balcony. No one paid her any mind as she walked- the little room was as empty as it was clean. The bed was made, the tchotchkes sorted, and every surface spotless and shining. 

The evidence of anyone residing in there was few and far between, but the maid had been trained well. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an empty patch of floor by the bedside table where sandals should have been. One knarled finger pulled a drawer open, and she found nine pristine dresses folded neatly. Each one was perfectly white and perfectly tailored to the youngest royal. As usual, only one was missing- the same one every servant in the palace had tried to throw out at least three times.

The dress was every servants’ nightmare- ratted at the edges and stained with every color a child can touch. Flowers and grasses’ stains marred an unsightly pink that no royal should ever have to wear. Of course, that robe had to be the princesses’  _ favorite  _ piece of clothing. It was appalling, but it was the truth. No matter how many times the servants had tried to hide, replace, or downright burn that horrible thing it appeared- like magic- back in the closet the next day.

The old maid poked her head out into the hallway and nodded at whatever compatriot of hers was out there- it didn’t make any difference who. No matter the age, gender, or experience of the servant in the hallway, their reaction would be the same. The path from the smallest royal apartment to the throne room was familiar to every maid, butler or other staff members unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of the ancient maid’s nod. Infant arguments bubbled through the early morning air, old phrases passing through a new day and leaving a taste like copper in the mouths of gossips.

“Every day for four years,” a pretty young maid said to her friend.

“Five,” the other whispered back before turning a corner. She picked up speed as she walked- laughing about a royal, no matter how young, would be unwise in the presence of eyes. Theories passed in whispers and blinks, but only theories- not a single soul in the palace dared to count the days the old maid had nodded from inside the tiny apartment. Any talk of numbers in the gardens was shushed with a rustle of peach leaves and a desperate look from the boy in the tree. 

Whatever nameless servant entered the throne room, he or she carried the same message. The words had been spoken so often that, in the rare case that they missed their place in the morning routine, the whole palace would seem off-kilter for the rest of the day.

“My emperor, it seems the princess is missing.”

The emperor gave no response but rose from his throne, quiet as always as he moved through his home and out to the front gate. The maintenance crew- still unwilling or perhaps unable to return to life inside the palace- waved to him as he passed. There were no pleasantries swapped, there was no need to. The crew knew, as it seemed the whole world knew, the emperor’s mission. 

The adults spoke of it only in hushed tones, an eternal battle between the emperor who could find any star in the sky and the princess who wanted never to be found. She dresses in rags, they said, to blend in with the others. From common blood, she came, and to common blood, she tries every day to return. Only the unstoppable savior can meet the immovable heir.

The children called it ‘hide-and-seek’.

The princess did not have a demon to fight. Nor did she have a world’s worth of tutors to fill her with skill upon skill. She did, however, have her father- and what a father to have. Each morning was filled with running and hiding- and  _ laughter _ , always bright and happy and echoing through the forests she memorized a little more every day. Go  _ over  _ that root, the little voice in her mind said, then turn left at  _ that _ tree. If the maids saw her in her element, they’d scoff and whisper amongst themselves like they always did. 

The icy water of a stream hit her legs, and an image flashed in her mind- the old maid fainting at the sight of her muddy sandals. It didn’t matter because the stream would make her harder to track, but she laughed anyway as she climbed onto the riverbank. Her bun came undone, sending a jet black curtain of hair down her back, but she didn’t notice. 

The princess found herself laughing again as she ran through the forest, joy bursting out in bubbles as her little feet found their way through the forest. Any onlooker would find only confusion at the scene- a pink blur winding through a sea of green, giggling all the way.

She laughed so hard, she didn’t even notice the white blur in the bushes until it caught her around the middle and tossed her in the air.

“Father!” the little one shouted as she found herself weightless, a familiar face suddenly in view.

“Hello, Hana,” the emperor said, catching her with ease. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve broken your record yet again.”

Her father always had a strange way of speaking, toned down and quieter than anyone really should, but the princess could pick out his emotions like puzzle pieces- like a tiny translator between the emperor and the rest of the world.

“The stream,” she explained, finding herself settled onto her father’s shoulders. “I read that hunters use streams to cover their tracks.”

“Very smart, little one.”

They traveled together, white and pink, through the forest and back toward the palace, just as they had done for the last five years. Hana- the princess, the jewel, the little flower of the land- stretched up toward the sun, and realized something she hadn’t before.

“Father,” she said. “I’ve lost my shoe.”

The emperor sighed and turned toward the forest again- breakfast could wait for a little longer in the sunshine.


End file.
